irrelevant perfection
by another moment gone
Summary: Two-shot. "We're a mix of undiscovered colors and jumbled words that just don't ryhme. We're a chorus of musical voices that blend and sing but just aren't heard... we're simply ourselves." A contradiction and comparison for the girls & the boys. *R&R*
1. take this word of advice

i r r e l e v a n t ... p e _**r**_ _**f**_ e _c_ t **i**_ o _**n**

-another moment gone-

* * *

**Two-shot.  
[Other shot-coming soon.]**

--

She wonders why it's always her that seems to get the short end of the wooden stick. It makes no sense why she's the one who's next to the best and upon the pedestal just not at the very top. It makes her question her own saneness sometimes. Is she insane? Does she have strange controlling manipulating powers to influence everyone around her?

Maybe.

It makes a grin spread across her pale milk-white face when he whispers in her ear, his eyes glued straight ahead to a hot mess that always ends up on the top while she, the wallflower, lay flat against the wall like the forgotten flower she is.

It's a dribble of a jumble of irrational words and often confused and mixed up of uncompleted phrases and a mix of insensitive globs and splashes of adjectives that just don't seem to paint the perfect picture anymore.

It makes her wonder.

What is perfect?

A mere aspect that many hopeless dreamers strive for, but in the end, land flat on their toned asses realizing with a sense of wavering dread that perfection is only a mirage that is meant for the dry, heated desert; and _only_ the desert; not some common day life with the uncommon dreaming blonde or senseless, lost brunette.

It makes her wonder why she is second best.

--Such a simple concept that many of her peers question themselves. She's no epitome of a dreamer, let alone a dreamer that strives for that god forbidden word _perfection_.

She's no leader that controls and is the definition of witty.

She doesn't strut into rooms with her head held high with narrowed amber eyes and a model blank stare while many various heads turn and attentions perk and whispers enroll. She doesn't pose with a poised extravagant unintentional swiftness that seems to get every gaze to land upon her and her top designer dress and tamed locks of flaxen brunette curls of bounce.

She's no Massie Block.

* * *

-

She's no beta that follows the top leader with a smirk plastered upon her lit up naturally tanned face. She doesn't hang by the flanks of her best friend who manages to steal every heart and every taken guy's attention.

She doesn't manage to run with the stolen hearts and quickly lose track of them and drop them like a deer caught in the headlights.

She's no natural beauty; she doesn't have waves of thick black mane that gleam under the brightly lit ballroom. She's no princess; that's a given. She doesn't have ruby red lips that pout and attract every male to stare at her model's body with a certain glance of pure lust.

She doesn't achieve and strive to be the best the way this Spanish beauty does. She doesn't reach for the stars or attempt to walk on water like God himself. She's not a goddess in her own simple fascinatingly different ways.

She's no Alicia Rivera.

* * *

-

She's not a gorgeous blonde who's confident with herself and tosses her naturally stick straight hair behind her, glowing with rose colored cheeks and soft baby blue eyes.

-She not a girl who isn't afraid to voice her honest concerns and stress her conflicts that she is inflicted with due to her lack of control and self-esteem. She's not some girl who cakes her face with various designer makeup; a futile attempt to get heads to turn the way her best friend naturally does. She's not some girl to catch the eye of a sweet, minding boy with two different shaded eyes that hold the stars when she looks at her.

She isn't a girl who's comfortable in her own natural skin and careful words. She doesn't count her blessings and keep track of every boy she's been broken by and learn from it. She's not a naïve beauty who keeps coming back for more when it's clear he's gone off and is off to toy and rip some more delicate as a butterfly's wings heart.

She's no Claire Lyons.

* * *

-

She's not some funky redhead that manages to be able to eat more than her own body weight and not gain an obvious ounce. She's not comfortable with her lame boisterous jokes that get every lip to lift and every stomach to hurt due from exceeding laughter.

She's not a girl who laughs like there's tomorrow and whines like it's the end of the world and yet, manages to get two dates to a elegant party that is infamous and extremely secretive.

She's not a girl who can get every single frowning peer to lift their frown upside down with a single breath taken and a few words given.

She's no Dylan Marvil.

* * *

-

She's no blonde who can outrun just about everyone with a twist of her high pony tail that holds silk blonde; whooshing out from behind her as she outruns a dirty blond boy.

She's not a girl who can taunt a boy about beating them in a short match of soccer and whooping their butts after a long sweaty hot game of soccer. She's not a girl who can be just _one of the guys_ with a simple bat of an eyelash and a bursting boom of laughter. She's not a girl who can manage to get straight A+'s and keep doing working at it like the apocalypse is yet to come.

She's not a brainy girl the way the other girl is. She doesn't hold a record for the most scored goals in a single soccer season; knocking the previous graduates from her school out of the picture with a single kick of her cleats.

She's not a girl that can manage to turn heads of all the boys on the soccer team with a twist of her pony tail and a flick of a soccer ball. She can't run the fastest she can and still look gorgeous and fluent like this girl.

She's no Kristen Gregory.

* * *

-

Alas, she's the simple minded, the black and white viewing girl who has a stubborn reputation that can't be broken or toyed with. She herself is no member of the amber eyed pretty girl, or the Spanish princess, or the fair and honest blonde, or the joking that gets laughter out of everyone, or let alone the sporty blonde that manages to balance grades, sports, boys, and friends all in a single course of a semester.

She's just an ordinary wallflower who can't piece puzzles together with a flick of a finger or a blink of an eye. She can't do a lot of things but one thing she can definitely do is be herself; even if it is a mix of the infamous amber eyed girl or the Spanish pretty, or the blonde Orlando girl, or the humorous redhead or the spacious, smart and athletic blonde.

She's just plain old wallflower girl.

-

* * *

Review.

* * *

-this was just a random drabble that makes no sense and has no meaning…really. I was just trying to imitate other writer's I've read and other fics I've enjoyed.-

As always,

-another moment gone-

**_PS: try to guess who 'wallflower girl' is…_**


	2. and be who you are

i r r e l e v a n t . p e _**r**_ _**f**_ e _c_ t **i**_ o _**n**

* * *

-another moment gone-

**Two-shot.**

--

* * *

It's like the pretty lights that shined down upon you as you looked up towards the sky and the ceiling, were the two things that met you. The ceiling seemed endless as you stared up in awe, the ceiling flawless and crack-free. It was almost perfect.

Almost.

-

You're not the kind of guy to play with hearts like him. You're no blond haired boy who finds it amusing to date the hottest girl in Octavian Country Day, and screw around with her heart by flirting with her almost flawless, yet nearly and so far from perfected friends.

You can't play the 'big man' by being a star goalie who manages to pull down his pants and shake his white butt and keep all the coated coal eyelashes glued to him with opened jaws and gushing gossip.

You can't be the guy who steals the most popular eye-candy in the girl's school. You can't steal Massie Block's heart, or turn her amber orbs anywhere in any way, near you. You can't play with her heart and stomp all over it, then whisper sweet nothings in her diamond studded ears and earn her affection with a bat of a _extremely _masculine eyelash.

You can't even begin to try and be the oblivious brown eyed boy who can look into the amber eyes of his so called girlfriend, [which he treats like property] and not notice the masked pain and hidden talent. You can't be the guy who doesn't tremble at seeing the fiery flaming anger that thundered when the brunette snapped and broke.

You're no way in hell, Derrick Harrington.

--

You're not the kind of guy to write sappy notes and give heart wrenchingly clever CD's that include a playlist of your emotions. You aren't the boy who has an ocean blue eye and an emerald gem green eye. You clearly do not have two different colored eyes; out of the norm you are not.

You do not, in any particular way, or level, have the sweet beautiful Claire Lyons wrapped around your finger. You know it deep down, that you're good friends with her but it's clearly never ever going to be more than that.

You aren't the sweet sensitive forward who kicks ass at scoring goals and flirting with all the chill girls.

You're not the guy who can balance sports, grades, and girls, all at the same time and you definitely don't have an older brother who is on the top charts of _hawt_ that all the O.C.D. girls list.

You're a mix of disarrayed color scheme that no one can see. You're ultra violet on the light spectrum that scientist often overlooked. You're the mess that no one ever wants to pick up but rather scrutinize for a moment then shuffle on without another glance.

You're not Cam Fisher.

--

You're not the Spanish boy who has charming looks, and manage to get kicked out of an old school Hotchkiss. You do not have the affection of the gorgeous, gossip queen, Alicia Rivera drooling over you and doing everything and getting every_one _to look at her just to get your single minded attention.

You aren't infatuated in a very [masculine] manner with Ralph Lauren. You aren't the popular boy who gets the girls to chase after you and try to steal your kisses.

You aren't the boy who plays defense as one of the best players on Briarwood Academy's soccer team, and you certainly can't get even teachers to gaze at you with lustful eyes.

You aren't the kind of guy to steal your best friend's girl [and her first kiss] all while trying to light a fire that just won't ignite. Even if the fire were to burn for a bit, it would not last and you were absolutely _positive_ of that.

You are not the pretty Spanish boy, Josh Hotz.

That's a given.

--

You are not the kind of guy who tries to look up girl's skirts and make everything [completely irrelevant] sexual and awkward. You can't light up an entire room with smiles and laughter.

You are not an incredible midfielder for soccer on the Briarwood team, and you are definitely no heart breaker and player-to-be. You are not the guy who goes soft and whipped for a burping redhead and then goes and sends pig pictures of her after Skye Hamilton's disastrous costume party.

You are not that guy who thinks that girls are the only things keeping you breathing and studying [ha!].

You're not the guy who makes teacher's roll their eyes in annoyance but cause a small sliver of a smile to curve up in fighting a single smile.

When it comes to girls, you're not a player or an expert, or a pervert.

You're no Kemp Hurley.

--

You do not wear glasses and you do not partner up as sharing Dylan Marvil to go to Skye's infamous costume party.

You do not torture the insecure redhead until she begins to analyze the idea of having an eating disorder, or taunt her until she resolves into salty tears.

You aren't the guy who is side-kick with Kemp Hurley and has the bluest eyes [according to Massie] she has ever seen.

You are not attracted to redheads like this guy, but rather a blonde with Keds and a brunette with fiery flaming amber eyes. You do not have the LBRs [as Massie forces it] swooning and pining over you as you play the role of a side-kick next to Kemp Hurley as a midfielder on the dewy green grass of a soccer field.

You are merely a color splattered out of random chance and probability, onto the whiter than white fresh and new canvas. You are a math equation that not even Einstein could even begin to attempt to compute.

You're not the genius of the infamous, popular, and attractive group.

You're no Christopher Plovert.

--

You're the mere speck that floats endlessly in the winded air that is clouded with dust and dew and millions of teeny tiny dots. You're catastrophe and you're peace all set into one binding. You're the paradox of silence and deafening, silence. You're the alphabet all backwards and turned upside down, just to bewilder the impatient learners that are to take on the next generation with open minds and willing hearts.

You're the apocalypse and the allusion that every writer makes the connection to.

You're the rain that storms down in peddles and free falls down onto the waiting black cement and causes a silent catastrophe that no one ever notices but everyone seems to hear.

You're not the feisty blond haired boy with an ego the size of China and the given apathy of a celebrity that just doesn't care about the hearts they're breaking. You're not the black haired boy with two different alluring eyes with the heart of a naïve eight year old boy. You're definitely not the Ralph Lauren [masculine!] obsessed Spanish boy with the style of a not [gay] guy. You're certainly not the heartless [almost] afro pervert with a smile that catches every one's eyes. You're not the glasses wearing gentle [kind of] guy who tantalizes redheads with an open mind.

You're just you.

The unsuspecting mystery that no one cares enough to solve.

For now.

* * *

_Fin._

--

* * *

Review?

-another moment gone-

Try and take a guess who he is…(:

* * *

PS: thanks for all the wondrous reviews! I LOVE getting reviews. They make my days. (=


End file.
